that significant?
Next to the fake oak cabinets was a bulletin board with photos of Angus and Wanda --
Wanda in a giant sombrero, her face smeared in whipped cream. Birthday party, California style. There were a couple of postcards, a schedule of classes that neither of them was attending. That was about it.
All the while I searched, the quiet chill of the place gnawed at me. I began to feel like I was being watched. Every time the house creaked -- and sometimes when it didn’t -- I snapped to attention, staring about myself uneasily.
If I hadn’t already told Jake I would be there, I’d have walked out a dozen times. As it was, I’d been inside about eight minutes when I decided I’d had it. I would wait for Jake out front in the Forester. For that matter, I didn’t even know if Jake had got my message. He likely hadn’t. He hadn’t called me back. He was probably home in bed, sound asleep, right now. Which is where I would have been if I had any sense at all.
As I crossed the living room, heading for the glass door, it occurred to me that the sour sick smell that hung over the place like a pall was stronger from the hall that led to the bedrooms.
I stood rooted in the intersection of rooms, my mouth dry with dread.
Thank you and good night, I thought. At the same instant, I realized that I couldn’t walk away. Never mind the ethics of the situation, I’d touched the front door knob, the 66 Josh Lanyon
sliding glass door, the lamp -- and those were the articles I knew for sure would retain fingerprints. The articles I remembered touching.
I could be wrong, I reassured myself. I was often wrong. More and more often, it seemed lately.
But I knew I wasn’t wrong. Not this time. Not about this.
I turned down the hallway. It felt like when you’re trying to run in nightmare. Despite the adrenaline overdrive, my footsteps dragged as I paced the length of the hall. I poked my head around the doorframe.
Moonlight poured from the back window onto the thing sprawled on the bed. White, limp, and streaked with dark: a body.
“No,” I said. “No. No fucking way.” My voice sounded shocked and loud. Way too loud.
Too loud for the room, too loud in my head. I clamped down on it.
Dimly, I made out the giant circle scrawled on the wall above the headboard. Circle with a five-point star, and in the center, a terrible symbol -- the calling card of a high-ranking demon.
The Hell You Say
67
Chapter Ten
I retreated a step, then a few more, walking backward because -- crazily -- I was afraid to turn my back on the body in the bedroom. I reached the living room without falling over anything. I stood there, white noise filling the space usually needed for thinking.
The glass door slid open behind me. I spun around, blood thundering in my ears. I don’t do surprises well.
Jake slipped inside, got one look at my face, and was across the floor in two strides. His hands closed on my arms. He said close to my ear, “Don’t pass out.”
“I won’t.” I thought I said it aloud, but maybe I was just thinking it. My face seemed to be pressed into his shoulder. I breathed him in. He smelled like the night and like deodorant soap; he smelled alive.
After a few moments he gave me a shake. “Adrien? Come on, baby. Pull yourself together.” He gave me another joggle, this one less patient. “Is it Angus?”
I shook my head.
He put me away from him, moving past. I heard the bedroom light click on. Light spilled down the hallway. I tottered the last steps to the couch, dropped into the sagging cushions, practiced taking long, calm breaths.
While You Were Out, with special guest Charles Manson.
After a couple of minutes, Jake dropped into the chair across from me. I glanced at his face. Nice to know I wasn’t the only one sick with horror.
“I think it might be the girl from the bookstore,” he said.
“Velvet?” I was aghast.
Jake looked confused. “The one you called Kinsey. The blonde.”
Kinsey.
Next to the fake oak cabinets was a bulletin board with photos of Angus and Wanda --
Wanda in a giant sombrero, her face smeared in whipped cream. Birthday party, California style. There were a couple of postcards, a schedule of classes that neither of them was attending. That was about it.
All the while I searched, the quiet chill of the place gnawed at me. I began to feel like I was being watched. Every time the house creaked -- and sometimes when it didn’t -- I snapped to attention, staring about myself uneasily.
If I hadn’t already told Jake I would be there, I’d have walked out a dozen times. As it was, I’d been inside about eight minutes when I decided I’d had it. I would wait for Jake out front in the Forester. For that matter, I didn’t even know if Jake had got my message. He likely hadn’t. He hadn’t called me back. He was probably home in bed, sound asleep, right now. Which is where I would have been if I had any sense at all.
As I crossed the living room, heading for the glass door, it occurred to me that the sour sick smell that hung over the place like a pall was stronger from the hall that led to the bedrooms.
I stood rooted in the intersection of rooms, my mouth dry with dread.
Thank you and good night, I thought. At the same instant, I realized that I couldn’t walk away. Never mind the ethics of the situation, I’d touched the front door knob, the 66 Josh Lanyon
sliding glass door, the lamp -- and those were the articles I knew for sure would retain fingerprints. The articles I remembered touching.
I could be wrong, I reassured myself. I was often wrong. More and more often, it seemed lately.
But I knew I wasn’t wrong. Not this time. Not about this.
I turned down the hallway. It felt like when you’re trying to run in nightmare. Despite the adrenaline overdrive, my footsteps dragged as I paced the length of the hall. I poked my head around the doorframe.
Moonlight poured from the back window onto the thing sprawled on the bed. White, limp, and streaked with dark: a body.
“No,” I said. “No. No fucking way.” My voice sounded shocked and loud. Way too loud.
Too loud for the room, too loud in my head. I clamped down on it.
Dimly, I made out the giant circle scrawled on the wall above the headboard. Circle with a five-point star, and in the center, a terrible symbol -- the calling card of a high-ranking demon.
The Hell You Say
67
Chapter Ten
I retreated a step, then a few more, walking backward because -- crazily -- I was afraid to turn my back on the body in the bedroom. I reached the living room without falling over anything. I stood there, white noise filling the space usually needed for thinking.
The glass door slid open behind me. I spun around, blood thundering in my ears. I don’t do surprises well.
Jake slipped inside, got one look at my face, and was across the floor in two strides. His hands closed on my arms. He said close to my ear, “Don’t pass out.”
“I won’t.” I thought I said it aloud, but maybe I was just thinking it. My face seemed to be pressed into his shoulder. I breathed him in. He smelled like the night and like deodorant soap; he smelled alive.
After a few moments he gave me a shake. “Adrien? Come on, baby. Pull yourself together.” He gave me another joggle, this one less patient. “Is it Angus?”
I shook my head.
He put me away from him, moving past. I heard the bedroom light click on. Light spilled down the hallway. I tottered the last steps to the couch, dropped into the sagging cushions, practiced taking long, calm breaths.
While You Were Out, with special guest Charles Manson.
After a couple of minutes, Jake dropped into the chair across from me. I glanced at his face. Nice to know I wasn’t the only one sick with horror.
“I think it might be the girl from the bookstore,” he said.
“Velvet?” I was aghast.
Jake looked confused. “The one you called Kinsey. The blonde.”
Kinsey.
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